


Quentin Coldwater and the Pernicious Prickle Pixie Predicament

by Lexalicious70



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Fillory (The Magicians), Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-25 22:44:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18711196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexalicious70/pseuds/Lexalicious70
Summary: Quentin’s encounter with some Fillorian woodland creatures leave him with an itch he can’t scratch, but Eliot is more than happy to help him get some relief.





	Quentin Coldwater and the Pernicious Prickle Pixie Predicament

**Author's Note:**

> This is the result of headcanon chat on Twitter. I don’t own The Magicians, this is just for laughs. Comments and kudos are magic! Enjoy.

“Shit, _shit_!”       

 

The words, tinged with anxiety, were followed by a crash in the hallway that made Eliot jump out of his throne and yank open the door that led to the main entryway. Quentin was there, his messenger bag slung over one shoulder, whirling in circles like a religious convert overcome by a sermon. Eliot stepped forward.

 

“Quentin, what the hell?”

 

“Get them off me! Shit, ow **,** _OW_!” Quentin dropped his bag and yanked his sweater off, ignoring the startled stares of nearby servants. Eliot shooed them away and helped him, wincing back when several small winged creatures flew from the garment. They moved faster than hummingbirds and were completely iridescent. Eliot swatted one of the dime-sized things and it fell to the stone floor, twitching. Tick came bustling over at the ruckus, and Eliot pointed to the fallen thing as Quentin groaned and turned his back to the nearest wall, where he rubbed himself against it in a way that made Eliot flash back to the time he’d watched _The Jungle Book_ with Margo during an all-night Disney binge.

 

“Tick, what the hell is that thing?” He asked, and the rotund little man crouched down.

 

“Ah! There is no cause for worry, your majesty. ‘Tis only a prickle pixie.”

 

“A what?”

 

“A prickle pixie. They can be somewhat likened to your earth mosquito, you see. Only they are larger . . . and more aggressive.”

 

“A mosquito!” Eliot glanced down at the dead thing, which had a somewhat humanoid form that was almost transparent. “Those are insects, Tick! These things—”

 

“Are magical creatures, yes, but his majesty shouldn’t fret. They are not poisonous. They will attack in groups when their nests are disturbed, but their bites only cause mild—” Tick winced as Quentin gave a low sound of dismay and scratched himself against the stone wall again. “. . . discomfort.”

 

“Thank you, Tick.” Eliot went over to his friend and tugged him away from the wall. “Q, what the hell happened?”

 

“I was gathering spell ingredients in the northern woods and I tripped over a tree root. I fell against the base of the tree and all those little things came flying out of a crack in the tree trunk! They swarmed me like wasps! I ran but some of them flew down my shirt.”

 

“It’s okay, Q. Tick says they aren’t poisonous.” He turned the smaller man around and hissed softly through his teeth at the sight of Quentin’s back. It was peppered with bites from his shoulders to the small of his back, the irregular welts blotchy red and scored with a purple dot in the center of each. Eliot’s skin prickled at the sight of them.

 

“Jesus . . . come on Q, let’s get you into a cool bath,” Eliot said, picking up Quentin’s messenger bag and leading him away as Tick swept up the dead pixie and tossed the remains out a nearby window.

 

*********

 

Long after the court retired and Whitespire grew silent, Eliot was awakened by an odd noise outside his bedchamber. He rose, tossing on a purple robe with black piping before opening the door. There were guards at both ends of the hall, as always, and the sound was coming from an alcove to his right. Eliot nodded at the guards to assure them he was all right and went to inspect, casting a Chakril’s mini sun to light his way. He rounded the alcove to find Quentin sitting on the opposite side, where the arch was carved from rough stucco-like stone. Quentin was scratching himself against it, moving back and forth like a metronome gone haywire. Eliot crouched down.

 

“Quentin, what the hell are you doing out here?” He asked, and Quentin looked up at him, his cheeks flushed.

 

“These fucking bites! The castle physician brought me a poultice but I can’t reach—” His words tangled on near-panic and Eliot put a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Deep breaths, Q,” he said as he tugged the smaller man to his feet and turned him. The rough stone had left scratches across Quentin’s back, but the bites still looked swollen and pink around the edges. Eliot resisted the urge to scratch at himself in response. “Those pixies must have been 31 flavors of pissed off when they swarmed you.”

 

“Why is everything in Fillory so goddamned touchy?” Quentin scowled. “In the books they were all warm and fuzzy!”

 

“The books didn’t mention an all-powerful Beast that used to be a Chatwin, either,” Eliot sighed. “Come on, show me this poultice the doctor brought you.”

 

Quentin led Eliot back to his bedroom. While, Eliot, and Margo all had their own chambers, they ended up in each other’s rooms and beds more often than not and because Eliot was, according to Margo, made to be the big spoon. As they entered Quentin’s room, Eliot reflected that they hadn’t acted on any impulses since arriving in Fillory and becoming royalty, even though he knew Quentin had to feel the chemistry in the air each time they were together.

 

“This is it,” Quentin said as he went to his dresser and handed Eliot a jar of greenish goop that reminded him of avocado dip. Eliot sniffed it—it had the faint scent of a stagnant pond, earthy, rich, and not entirely unpleasant. Quentin huffed and rolled his shoulders. “The doctor says I’m supposed to kind of knead or scratch it across the bites, but I can’t reach!”

 

“And you didn’t come to me, why?” Eliot asked, and Quentin dropped his gaze to his bare feet.

 

“I don’t know, El. I guess—things got weird and I—I felt like shit for what I said to you about ruining my life. I was pissed at myself for hurting Alice and needed someone to blame. You and Margo weren’t at fault . . .” Quentin sighed. “Emotion magic, booze—yeah they were factors but, in the end, I’m the one who hurt her. And then I hurt you too.”

 

“Nonsense.” Eliot took his hand and led him over to the bed. “That wasn’t my first dalliance with more than one person, and certainly not the first to cause trouble. Here, lie on your stomach.” He guided Quentin down. “I have a thick skin, Q.”

 

“It was mine,” Quentin admitted. “But as usual, my timing was horrible. Alice called me a whore.” He paused. “I felt like one.”

 

“She was angry and hurt.” Eliot dipped his long fingers into the jar and spread some of the salve across Quentin’s skin. “The doctor said to knead this in?”

 

Quentin nodded. “He said it won’t do any good on the surface.”

 

“All right, shove over a little.” Eliot nudged him so he could sit. The edges of the bites were raised and pinkish. “Quentin, are you sure—”

 

“Please El . . .please they itch so bad!” Quentin begged, and Eliot relented. He ran the fingers of his left hand over Quentin’s shoulders, scratching and kneading the salve into the bites, and the younger magician arched his back into Eliot’s touch like an affectionate cat. “Fuck! Yes, El please, harder . . .” He whimpered, and Eliot cleared his throat a little as he tried not to imagine Quentin stuttering out those words other different circumstances. He stiffened his fingers and scratched his nails across the bites, ensuring each one became slathered with the stuff. Quentin shivered and made a small mewling sound, and Eliot added another dollop of the poultice between his shoulderblades. His cacodemon tattoo was marred with more of the bites, and Eliot swept his nails along them in wide left-to-right motions. Quentin’s shoulders rolled and his back arched.

 

“Is it helping?” Eliot asked, and Quentin responded with a sound that Eliot could only describe as a purr.

 

“So much better, ohhh. Don’t stop El, please!”

 

Eliot obliged him, adding thick blobs of the medication to clusters of bites along the small of Quentin’s back, along the outer edge of his tattoo, and along the skin just above his hips. The black sleep pants Quentin wore gaped at the back each time he arched his back, revealing that he wore nothing underneath them. Eliot looked away.

 

_Focus on something else. Roger Ebert in a thong, a pig wearing lipstick—Henry Fogg in spandex!_

“ _Uhhnnhhhh_ ,” Quentin moaned as Eliot kneaded the last of the stuff into the bites. The treated ones were already shrinking, and Eliot could see they’d probably be gone by morning.

 

He wasn’t sure he could say the same for his erection.

 

“Better,” Quentin sighed after a moment. “Oh, better, thank you El, thank you so much . . .”

 

“You’re welcome.” Eliot set the jar aside. “But I really should go and let you rest now.”

 

“Wait!” Quentin rolled into a sitting position and snagged Eliot’s hand. “Wait . . . please?”

 

“What is it, Q?”

 

“I—I don’t want to be alone, that’s all.” The words left the young magician in a rush. “Can you stay? Like you do with Margo?”

 

Eliot closed his eyes a moment.

 

“I’m not sure if you know what you’re asking.”

 

Quentin got to his feet and tipped his dark gaze up to Eliot’s.

 

“I think I do.” He rose up onto his bare tiptoes and pressed his lips to Eliot’s in an inexperienced but eager kiss. Eliot’s eyes widened at the bold move but his arms slid around Quentin’s lean form almost of their own accord. Quentin bumped his thigh against Eliot’s erection and then ground his inner thigh against it until a damp spot appeared on the purple material of Eliot’s robe.

 

“No emotion bottles, no booze,” Quentin smiled up at his friend. “No girlfriends. Just us.”

 

“But I—”

“I know, El,” Quentin nodded. “I was scared as hell when you came in here with me. I wasn’t sure if I had fucked things up for good back at the cottage, but when you offered to help, I knew there was still a chance. There—there’s still a chance, isn’t there?”

 

Eliot smiled and stroked a hand through Quentin’s fine tawny hair.

 

“Yes.”

 

Quentin rocked into the hard shaft of Eliot’s erection once more and tugged him down onto the bed.

 

“Margo says you’re the best big spoon in the universe. Show me?”

 

A slow grin spread over Eliot’s face.

 

“Got another itch only I can scratch?”

 

Quentin tutted toward his chamber door and it shut and locked, the fob giving off a small shower of magical sparks as he offered Eliot a hand.

 

“Only one way to find out.”

 

The room’s candles snuffed out a moment later, leaving Eliot to explore Quentin’s skin in a different way.

 

_Thank Fillory for second chances,_ he thought. _And for prickle pixies_.

 

**_Fin_ **


End file.
